Four Years
by Quarter 'till Class
Summary: Liechtenstein x Switzerland/Basch (warning: character death.)


**Disclaimer: All and any _Hetalia_ series character names belong to Hidekaz Himaruya, Bob Shirohata (and so on). No OC's are included within this work, indicating that nothing is claimed or owned by the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class****. Thank you...Please enjoy.**

_**Liechtenstein x Switzerland/Basch**_

**Warnings: Angst, character death, character replacement, human name is sometime used (Basch), and a happy ending(depending on how you look at it).**

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**Chapter One: Four Years. **

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It was late, and she sat idle in the chair at her dresser. Delicate hands clasped together patiently, green eyes narrowed in concern as she glanced back at the decorative clock on her wall. Liechtenstein pursed her lips, a shiver of cold running down her spine at the swift breeze that'd welcomed itself inside through the intricately decorated window of her room. The curtains blew inward, elegant, the sound of wind slapping the thin fabric somehow soothing. Liechtenstein breathes it in, nimble fingers toying with the bristles of her hairbrush like a curious child.

Switzerland was late, the horizon having long been shaded with nightfall and the darkness consuming the rest of the manor like a silent plague, hushing everyone into a vulnerable sleep. Another gust of air rustled the foliage that climbed the wall outside of her window; stray and decaying petals blew into the bedroom, swaying and landing like graceful leaves would after freely breaking from their branch in the fall. She bites her lip, hair ribbon waving with every stroke of past midnight's wind.

"Where is bruder..." The question drifts into the quiet of the house and fades into a hushed statement of concern rather than a question. An eerie pit welled within the lower base of her stomach, chest tightening and lungs straining themselves to inhale a heavy gasp of anxiety. Forest green eyes examined the reflection in the mirror, hair still resembling her brother's, but maintaing a more feminine length that skimmed her shoulders by the choppy, thinned tips. Nose still a cute point, lips still a plush pink and overall appearance still a fragile, naive child with a face as sweet a milk chocolate.

She frowns, destroying the picturesque image of pure, untainted innocence that maintained an essence of tranquility and kindness. Her brows furrowed, gaze quickly averted to the small, white alarm clock ticking on her bedside-table. It was late...beyond late.

Late was an hour after the sun set, gripping their side of the world and covering it with the intimidation of the darkness. Late was thirty minutes past the promised point of meeting or return, only eliciting a brief moment of concern to the person awaiting your arrival rather than nearly causing them a heart-attack. So no Switzerland was not late, Switzerland was, at the sixth hour past his scheduled homecoming, missing.

Liechtenstein stood, the wooden legs of the chair scraping roughly against the matching floor boards in a hasty manner. She smoothed out her rose colored dress in appreciation, having not changed for bed while awaiting his return, and glancing once more in the mirror to survey her appearance. The girl dare not cynically scrutinize her physical presentation, Basch having purchased everything available to her in order to look comely and wholesome. To look elegant and proper and capable of both hosting and being hosted, granted she'd never be allowed to host anything without constant surveillance (if at all).

So she did. And she did not belittle or criticize herself out of respect for her brother's financial sacrifices whenever he bought her something new. She had always appreciated what he'd managed to provide, now being an overwhelming amount of dresses, gowns, and accessories available to use rather than the little food he'd always unfairly portioned (in her favor, of course) during their times of struggle.

Liechtenstein hastily slipped on her casual shoes, toes curling through the nylon and into the fluff that softly caressed the bottom of her feet. She raised the front of her dress a bit to avoid catching the bend of her legs on the lace and silk; the gown hanging daintily from her waist and ending only a few inches in length past her knees. Quickly she made her way down the hall, a small pitter-pattern of floppy slippers the best Liechtenstein could manage as far as covertness and silence.

The tick of the hallway clock caught her attention as she tiptoed down the final steps of the stairs. Lichtenstein glanced around, the eerie front room of the house seeming gloomier than usual as the darkness consumed every edge and corner, shading whatever may be lurking around. The girl inhales calmly before habitually smoothing out her dress again, sitting on the last step and leaning her head against the wooden railing for a hopefully comfortable support.

She stared at the doors, their massive size a sight to behold as she observed every intricate design curving its way along the trimmings, the light of the mood peeking in from the window illuminating each swirl and turn. Liechtenstein's eyes flutter shut, heavy with the lack of sleep she enforced upon herself at her brother's absence. She untangled the ribbon from her hair, hand clasped endearingly around such a valuable piece of cloth as she rested the grip in her lap.

Within the hour her head dipped drearily, grip slipping and tense limbs relaxing into the soothing sound of consistent silence. Her toes curled into her slippers as a last physical indication of concern for Switzerland, and she was dragged down by exhaustion.

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Her dreams had been peaceful, the smile etched onto her own face somehow more vivid than her brother's scowl. He aimed his rifle daringly, more or less offended by the person on the other end. And she found herself grinning like a child despite his violence, egging him on only to have him set aside his firearm and stroke her cheek gently.

The heavy slam of a car door had jolted her awake. Foreign footstep alerted her further. The heavy thuds of numerous pairs almost troubled as they echoed from outside at a fast pace. It was morning, the sight of the peeking sun barely clearing the horizon telling her the horridly early time of day. She glances around, noticing how the coatrack is bare of his dark green jacket and he is not hovering over her with a small, quick breakfast and a speech to scold.

Basch had never come home.

The footsteps drew close, causing the girl to panic as though helpless, because these steps were rough, callous and impatient. They were anyone's but her brother's. Who somehow walked with dignity and collectiveness no matter what the occasion.

And she jolted again, a swift, loud knocking disrupted the quiet of the too-early morn...her eyes widening and watching the door intently. Without thinking she ran towards the unexpected company, tired legs slipping gracelessly on the smooth surface of the marble tile only to fling herself forward and lose her slippers while doing so. Unlocking the door her hands shakily clasped around the wide handle on the left, struggling with its weight to heave it open by a simple creak. And her breath caught painfully in her throat, mouth suddenly dry as the cold winds of the late hours chapped her lips upon contact. Surprise was often overwhelming.

The secretary of Liechtenstein's Prince, the man who willingly ensured her economic stability, stood beside the Vice President of the Swiss Confederation and two of it's more recognizable members; also people responsible for the recreation of her entire being. They wore suits, pressed perfectly, professional and pristine with their firm posture and intimidating air. Their faces were solemn, and the sight made her stiffen, the breeze dodging past the group in her doorway in an almost melancholy way. The literal management of Switzerland, all authority figures of highest regard on their side of the world, stood before her.  
Their states were somber, and the secretary, who's name she recalled as Vero, immediately stepped forward. His hands were clammy, eyes looking over the mere immaturity of the young lady before he cleared his throat with a more than sympathetic expression.

"Liechtenstein..."

An unbelievable sight choked her into anxiousness, soft green eyes hardening with trepidation and her hands quickly fell limp from the door handle, fingers twitching while accompanied by the horrid need to sob.

But she held back such rude behavior, teeth digging into her lower lip painfully before she shakily spoke up.

"Gentlemen." It was excruciating. Her hands trembled as toes curled, eyes beginning to water for no apparent reason. "H-how may I help you? It is so early..."

A soft silence. The rhythmic ticking of the clock, echoing slightly against the walls of her home. And she stood, childish eyes staring into the depths of the Vice President's, who's own gaze had been hardened by what Liechtenstein assumed was work, stress and past failures. They softened with sympathy, an unexpected turn of visual emotions that skewered her heart unintentionally. And she shook uncontrollably at the unspoken news.

A maid, having rushed to the front room at the sound of knocking, watched with dismay at the men outside. Her own lungs tightening as Liechtenstein's legs gave way beneath her, the small girl falling to her knees with a fisted hand held shakily against her chest. She sobs, green irises dull, faded and suddenly broken as her fingers dig into the fabric of her gown. The rising sun illuminating the home and her suffering.

"No. Bruder will be home soon..." An awful display of denial, her hushed accusation pointed towards such authority with an foreign malice and trepidation. "...he will..."

And the maid rushes forward, arms outstretched even as she skids to the ground and embraces the girl. Older fingers curl delicately into her hair, Liechtenstein's breathing noticeably rugged with each uneven cry etched in pain and regret. And the woman rocked her gently back and forth, strict gaze suddenly boring into the four men at the door.

"Vhat ist zhe meaning of zhis?!" And only the man up front could find the words.

"Svitzerland..." He pauses, finding it appropriate to correct himself. "Basch...ist no longer vith us."

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_"You vill serve as our nation's personification...more so a delegate until a proper vone ist born and discovered."_

She remembered those words well. They way he'd said it...the way his lips had moved, even his somber expression of fatigue and sympathy. She could recall their clothes, their hair, their heavily accented voices and even the color of their eyes.

Four years. It'd been four years. Not much time at all, but it was somehow long enough.

_"Liechtenstein...for now, you are zhe new Svitzerland."_

Her eyes narrowed into the reflection of the glass, window bitten with frost and its pane layered with still falling snow. She dismissed her appearance, the ugly look of consistent affliction, grief and tribulation having set itself into each delicate feature only a month after she'd received the news.

Anger had consumed her being, and she did not mind.

Often she would stare at the weather. Make tea and sit calmly, trying her best to enjoy the feel of the sun through the window when it appeared. Or perhaps just watch the leaves rustle against the wind.

Sometimes she would work. She'd document anything significantly verifiable for both countries, her own and Switzerland. But lately anything worth claiming historical was rather frivolous and diminutive; more or less useless information no one would want to study. But she did it anyway, because Switzerland would have done it.

Some days people would visit. Prussia did once, more modest than ever expected. Italy, and Germany a couple times...only to cheer her up a bit. Spain and Romano. Finland. Kugelmugel. Hungary and Ukrain. Austria and a surprisingly kind Russia. France did during May. Britain the week after. Even Sweden came, quietly, providing his much appreciated condolences and sharing with her a very tranquil evening of tea.

_"I loved him." _She'd said one day, Sweden's gaze averting from the patio flora to its caretaker.

He had simply nodded, a deep hum of understanding allowing their silence to once again augment.

Perhaps they all arrived out of sympathy. She didn't mind. Every time was a comfortable silence they all spent recalling her brother fondly, although Italy voiced all the good times she still enjoyed his company. But eventually they would leave; for that she was grateful.

Then she'd see them all again during the World Meetings. Always sitting in her designated spot, paperwork spread out evenly with room to spare due to the empty chair beside her. It was always there, staring, waiting...lonely. Nations would always watch her with varying looks, some emotionless, some saddened and others obviously sympathetic. She didn't acknowledge them, mainly because she would stare at the empty seat to her right and imagine he was just late. Germany eventually removed the chair for some, probably logical, reason. She found herself hating him for it...because that was Switzerland's chair and he still had a place in this world despite his absence. But Liechtenstein was also grateful he'd disposed of it. Because...it'd been Basch's chair. And Basch was dead.

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She'd sit in the gardens, the leaves and idle buds frozen by the harsh ice of winter. She would be out in the late afternoon, only venturing back inside once the cold became insufferable. Her fingers clamped together as Liechtenstein wallowed in her endless grief. But it often seemed as though she awaited something...as if Switzerland would calmly walk through the back gates, maybe with a weapon over his shoulder or his nose deep within a book of three hundred pages. He would pause calmly and look away from his readings or firearm to examine her flora with a bit of kindredness. He would smile faintly, unsure if it'd go unnoticed or not to those within visual range. And he would delicately analyze each petal, a look of proud expectation at the work of her 'green thumb'. Finally he would glance in her direction, a small smile gracing her kindly before he continued his way into the house. Disappearing until tea or lunch or, although it'd been rare, bedtime.

Yes. She could see him, the blonde of his hair shimmering in contrast against the white of the snow, his eyes still as serious as they had always been...still capable of maintaining such a pensive expression while also conveying a secondary emotion. And she laughed a bit, leaning forward eagerly with optimistically widened eyes, hands tense and fingers curled into themselves before standing and staring with impeccable awe.

And just as she inhaled to yell for him, his walking form passing an arch of frostbitten leaves, he disappeared before reaching the other side. Her heart dropped, her eyes watered, and she sat back down with her dress fisted in tense fingers. Blonde hair bounced as she dropped carelessly into the chair, the pale green of her dress an elegant flow of color against the frozen landscape that'd once been her maintained garden, now numerous clusters of overgrown foliage. A graveyard of both petals, seeds and care.

She did not cry anymore. His absence had turned her silent, unspoken and callous. She does not live, awaiting the day that the child born as her neighboring country was mature enough to properly represent the nation at world meetings. Was old enough to declare war, maintain peace, aim a gun, and sign a treaty. So she stood, laced boots crunching into the inches of snow, catching her feet and making the simple action of walking as difficult as a battle. Liechtenstein glowered at the frosty yard, heart sinking like a delicate object of memorable value within the waters of a mucky lake, lungs stinging from the cold air of the late season and head lightly dusted with the soft white specks she'd learned to despise so easily.

Basch had hated the snow.

She turns away from the dense complexity of what was once important to her, hair again long and twirled daintily into a soft braid that trailed over her shoulder. A purple ribbon, worn and thinned form use, hung loose and tied the ends together. She couldn't keep her brother's hairstyle, every glance into the mirror a devastating reminder of what no longer existed.

Her eyes narrow, the once sweet, soft-spoken features dulled by regret and anguish, melancholy with the hard labors or both physical work and emotional angst she'd been forced to endure.

Liechtenstein gave her garden one last glance of despondency before she gently pushed open one of the back doors, entering the manor in the same gentle way she had years ago. Hands clasped at her front, lips set in a thin, flat line. Her eyes portrayed strictness, an unbelievably harsh expression that saw order and readiness as a necessity. Her gaze bore into the kindred expression of the smiling maid's, looking down at the white bundle of cloth in the old woman's arms, the bundle a baby.

The soft complexion was rosy in the cheeks, lips quaint and nose the size of a blouse button against his face. His striking green eyes glimmered like two small emeralds would out in the morning sun, happily reminding her of Basch. A yawn escaped him, a small white tooth sticking out of his gum like a new-formed pearl in the cushion of its clam. It nearly beckons a smile to her lips, the innocence so immaculate and precious that Liechtenstein couldn't compare it to anything in the world.

"Hand him here." She says, a tone so matured by loss and sobbing cries...deepened further into its femininity by her throat lacking laughter and expression. And the maid, always so understanding, gently placed the child in her arms, who was a surrogate son gifted by a woman that'd died birthing him. Provided by a father who realized the child's place in their world and agreeably let him go; his older face had been pained and sunken with despair like her own.

She cradled him, a bundle of tired joy present in her arms with eagerly curling fingers and a stretching grin. She stared, a vague smile ghosting over her features as he toyed with the end of her braid. He seemed fragile, like that little porcelain doll her brother had purchased her so long ago. A hypothetical similarity for its physical weakness, the warm radiance he expelled just by breathing proving her comparison invalid. A bubbly giggle spittled out of his mouth, laughably gross but no less endearing.

"Please leave." And the maid makes herself scarce, the faint pats of her shoes cooing the baby to sleep in its seemingly endless rhythm.

Liechtenstein takes him further into the manor, posture straight and firm as her brother had taught her. The child squirmed as she sat in the library's single-person chair, the violet of the cushion subtle with the elegant navy trimmings. She eyed the empty tea cup on the table beside it, the drink having slipped her mind entirely the night before. Liechtenstein sank in a bit, the seat worn from countless nights of reading, crying and simply thinking alone with the comfort of silence she often strived for.

The baby let out a hiccup, eyes fluttering closed only to bolt open, struggling to stay awake and observe his surroundings. And a sense of hope, a sense of expectation and relief overwhelmed her entire being. Green eyes shed the heaviest tears, lip quivering slightly as she watched him slowly fall victim to exhaustion. His cheek snuggled comfortably into the little snowy blanket tangled around him, pressed firmly and safely against her breast and surrounded by her delicate arms.

Liechtenstein grinned whole-heartedly, lips thinning as she joyfully exposed the whites of her teeth. Gaze gleaming for the first time in ages, chest brimming with an uncontainable happiness as the taste of salt touched her tongue, tears trickling down her cheeks like thin rivers of relief.

"It's alright, I will take good care of you..."

And his even breathing seems almost soundless, his little chest at a slow pace. She sets her lips softly upon his forehead and begins to hum, his tiny hands gripping at her braid and hair-ribbon in his sleep.

"...My little Switzerland."

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**Thank you dolls for reading! **

**Please review! xoxo**


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